Broken Times
by RRP
Summary: Uh. SamParker Friendship. And sadness. Read if you dare. I love to eat reviews! One-shot.


Broken Times

_by rrp_

I was jarred from my sleep by the distant pounding of a fist on my front door. With a growl, I pushed myself up from the warm mattress and looked over at the glowing screen of my alarm clock.

2:39 AM.

I'd only been asleep for two hours. But still, it was an awful hour to go visiting, and I was ready to shoot whoever was hammering my door. I grabbed my gun, and slipped out of bed. I paused to put my silk robe on, and tie it about my waist; I wasn't greeting whoever was at the door in my little nightdress.

_Calm, Parker. Stay calm_.

I slowly made my way down the steps as the banging became more and more insistent. I put on hand on the chain-lock, and peered through the peep-hole. My eyes widened in surprise, and I set the gun on the side table before undoing the locks and swinging the door open.

Sam stood there, one fist still upraised and red from the constant contact with the wood. His eyes were wide and he looked beyond exhausted; far from the collected, stoic Sweeper I had left at the Centre just hours ago. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn't get the words out. I soundlessly waved him inside, and shut the door behind him.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

"Parker..." He ran a hand through his tousled hair, and took a deep breath. I was more than a little concerned now; I hadn't seen him this bad since college, when his foster-father had died. "I..."

"What?"

"I shouldn't have come." He squared his jaw, and reached past me for the door, muttering as he turned the knob, "I'm sorry. It's late, I should have just..." 

One hand on his shoulder stopped him, and he straightened where he was. "Sam. You're in my house at two in the morning, I'm already awake. Now just stop and tell me what's wrong."

He blinked, and I watched in disbelief as my best Sweeper's eyes filled with tears that threatened to spill over. His lower lip trembled, and his shoulders slumped. There was a split second of absolute stillness, and then he crumpled. His knees gave out, and he went forward– if it wasn't for fast reflexes and good muscle training on my part, he would have hit the floor.

"Don't you dare." I growled at him, genuinely worried by this point, but still hesitantly incapable of showing it. "C'mon, to the couch."

I led him to the sofa, and he sank into it, almost doubled over. I grabbed him by the shoulders, and brought him up to look at me.

"Don't make me call Sydney, because you know I will. What the hell is wrong with you?"

I knew pain. I had seen it, experienced it, time and time again. And the haunted agony that was in his brown eyes when he finally managed to raise them to meet mine rivaled that of what I felt when I lost my mother. I almost repeated my command to tell me what was wrong, but he drew a long, shuddering breath, and spoke in a mere whisper.

"My brother killed himself an hour ago." He groaned, and wrapped his arms around my waist and clung to me. "He shot himself, Parker...and I didn't even know anything was wrong..."

I was speechless, and I automatically reached out to stroke his head. "Shh..." was all I could think of to say. We sat like that for nearly five minutes, before I found words to say anything else. "It's okay. It's not your fault."

Those words broke the dam. He started sobbing into my lap, no doubt ruining my silk robe– but I was past caring. I couldn't do anything but hold him. It took the salty-bitterness stinging my tongue for me to realize that even I was crying.

Twenty minutes later, he was motionless; his breathing considerably easier than before. I didn't know what to do, or even if I should try to move, so I simply sat there. I couldn't count the number of times he had done the same for me, and never thought less of me for it. Having someone that wouldn't say a word about your weakness was crucial to appearing unbreakable.

So I sat there, cradling him as he clung to me. He sighed softly, and somehow I knew he had fallen asleep. I brushed back an invisible stray hair, my fingers running lightly over his creased brow, and he relaxed in my arms.

The people at corporate would laugh if they ever saw us like this. Sam, their toughest Sweeper, curled up in a fetal position, his head on my lap and arms around my waist. And I the Ice Queen, holding him as if it where the most natural thing in the world. How ironic.

I leaned over to see his closed eyes, dark lashes casting shadows on his tear-stained cheeks in the dim light. He moaned, and shifted, curling up into a tighter ball on my couch, if that was even possible. I began rubbing his back, and after a moment, let out a tired breath.

Tomorrow, we'd go on. We'd replace the masks that had fallen for a brief reprieve, and continue with the emotionless, unfeeling facades.

But for now, we were human.


End file.
